The Only Place I Call Home
by songsinblue
Summary: Natasha Romanov has worn tracks into the carpet of the apartment. She has been pacing for close to three days. Clint was sent to Mexico City eight days ago. And three days ago, S.H.I.E.L.D. had lost all contact with him. Angsty/sweet one-shot as thanks to my followers and reviewers!


Natasha Romanov has worn tracks into the carpet of the apartment. She has been pacing for close to three days, stopping only to check in to base, work out, and sleep fitfully. Clint was sent to Mexico City eight days ago. He was keeping tabs on a warlord-turned-arms dealer. And three days ago, S.H.I.E.L.D. had lost all contact with him. The Director has forbidden Natasha to go after him, but she's only giving that another few days, if that. She's losing her mind.

"You have to trust him," said his handler. "Barton's gone off-grid before." Natasha wanted to rip his tongue out. Because that's the canned response, because they can't tell her they don't know whether he's dead or alive, because she trusts Clint more than any other human on the planet, that's not the problem. Or maybe it is.

She has trusted him for years, ever since he couldn't kill her when she was already wounded, and she hadn't killed him because he'd set down his bow. Honor among assassins. She trusted him enough to follow when he offered her a place on his side, an escape from her criminal past and the promise the Americans didn't wipe their agents' minds the way she was used to. He'd offered her a chance to balance out her ledger, and he'd offered her life. She had to accept.

She trusts him because he is the best in the world at what he does, just like her. He has never stopped having her back, has only gotten better and better at it with time. The two of them fight like two halves of the same deadly weapon, instinctive and joyous. They make love like teenagers, they buy each other weapons for Christmas and they lay on the couch in their pajamas watching reruns and listening to each other's heartbeats when they can't sleep-

Natasha slams her palm into the coffee table. It stings, but she doesn't flinch. _Clint, where are you?_ The ache that has settled into her chest over the past forty-eight hours is smothering her. She doesn't know how to go on, only that she would fight her way through an army just to press her lips to his, just to feel him squeeze her so tightly her ribs creak, as if he's never held anything so precious.

She's been refusing to let herself think for so long she's numb, afraid and hoping that any moment her phone will ring and she'll pick up and hear- what? _That he's _fine, she forces herself to think. _He'll be fine. God I miss him…_ They've been partners from the beginning, even when they were being ordered to kill each other. They've been in love for years, and it's the strangest miracle she's ever encountered, two people with pasts and presents that ought to make them unlovable, incapable of love… and here they are, somehow, perfectly matched.

She picks up her phone again and unlocks the screen. It's the same as it's been for ages- patient and blank. It's 10:55 pm. Natasha runs her fingers through her red hair and tries to breathe, but it's getting to be a challenge.

The sound that shakes her from the emptiness isn't the one she's expecting. It's not her phone, but the scrape of a key in the lock. Automatically Natasha slips a hand under the coffee table, retrieves a 9 mm, and rises to her feet. She doesn't know what she's afraid of. There is a long minute in which she takes a deep breath, in and out, and the lock finally turns.

Clint has his hands up wearily. "I know you're probably pissed, but please don't shoot me," he says, and she's vaulted the couch and coffee table and is halfway into his arms, the pistol forgotten on the cushions, in a heartbeat.

"Clint," she gasps, and he drops the keys and his bag on the floor and leans back into the door as it closes behind him and Natasha presses her face into his collarbone. "What the hell happened, are you okay, we haven't heard from you in _days,"_ she says all at once, and she can't seem to let him go even though she notes the bruises on his arms, the bandage on his head, and the fact that he's favoring his left foot and letting the door support most of his weight.

He rests his arms around her shoulders, savoring the moment he's looked forward to for days, the softness of her hair and the concern in her eyes. He's come back to her. He will always come back to her. "I got a little sidetracked," he says, "and lost my comm. Got what I went for, though."

"And then some," Natasha replies. "Come to bed, you look like hell."

"I'm okay," he says, but he lets her steady him as he drags himself down the hall to their bedroom. God, it's good to be back. "Just a rough couple of days." He sinks down onto the bed with a sigh of pure relief. She checks him over, head to toe, but he's already bandaged himself up pretty well. "Can you call me in?" he asks, kicking off his jeans and settling into the pillows. "The Director isn't going to be nearly as friendly as you when he hears I'm back."

Natasha makes sure, one last time, that her hawk is comfortable in the bed before running out to the living room to grab her phone and running back, as if she's scared he'll disappear again. Even the minute that takes her is too long, and when she slides back onto the bed, she presses herself against Clint's side as she dials. He puts his arm around her and she says into the phone, "It's Romanov. Barton's here, he's fine." Clint can't hear what is said on the other end, but Natasha snaps, "Well, deal with it tomorrow," and hangs up. He laughs.

Natasha wraps her arms around him again and stares into his gray-blue eyes. _He's back, he's back, he's back, he's mine, he's here, thank god. _"You scared me," she says.

He doesn't smile, doesn't say _but nothing scares you,_ just looks back at her with complete openness and says, "I'm sorry, Nat." In answer she kisses him, first gently, then, as he pulls her closer, harder, desperately, like he is the only source of oxygen on the planet. "I'm sorry," he whispers again.

"Don't ever leave me," she whispers without meaning to, her voice suddenly on the edge of breaking. "Damn it, Clint, what would I do?"

"No," he cuts her off, one callused hand on her cheek. "Never, Tasha, never. I'm always coming home to you. I promise."

And like she has from the first night they met, she trusts him. They fall asleep wrapped up in each other, two halves of the same whole, together again.


End file.
